


Drowning Together

by Morpheus626



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25351297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: A request from @elliotslament on Tumblr: "A reader x elliot fic where elliot drowns his sorrows in alcohol on his dad's death anniversary due to the trauma."Warnings in this for mentions of alcohol consumption and using it to cope emotionally, disordered eating, allusions to past abuse for Elliot and Reader (but nothing is mentioned explicitly in this, it's literally referred to as "what was done", "what had happened", no detail at all), and of course talking about death as mentioned in the prompt.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Reader
Kudos: 3





	Drowning Together

“How drunk are you right now?” 

“...six.” 

You pulled your phone from your face and gave it the same look you wanted to be giving Elliot, then put it back to your ear. “Elliot, that doesn’t make sense.” 

“Six blocks away...from home.” 

“That still doesn’t answer my question, but it answers another one I had,” you said with a shake of your head. “Stay put, I’m going to come get you.” 

“You’re rescuing me?” 

He sounded absolutely shit-faced, you could almost see his dark lashes fluttering the way they did whenever he was drunk and attempting something like charming. And you almost hated how well it worked on you. 

“Yeah, I’m rescuing you. Please don’t drink anymore, or vomit, or pass out, or die until I get there, okay?” 

He mumbled in your ear as you walked, passing by the landmarks and buildings Elliot had mentioned earlier in the ramble of a conversation, until finally.

“My hero!” 

He was in your arms, and it was so wildly unlike him that you almost pushed him away out of shock. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t have time to get my cape. That okay?” 

He grinned, and you laughed as you started to pull him in the direction of his apartment. “No more booze at your place, okay? Not tonight, at least.” 

You had meant it, but as soon as you stumbled inside with him and he handed you a small drinking glass half-full of white wine (from a bottle that had been in the back of his fridge for who knew how long, but did it really matter with wine? You didn’t know and you didn’t care), you meant it a lot less. 

“One glass,” you said as you sipped the somewhat sweet but more acidic than it should have been wine. 

“One,” Elliot agreed as he sank beside you on the couch. “In honor...no. To say fuck him. But no...he was my only friend...but...” 

Elliot paused. “He died. You aren’t supposed to be angry with dead people. I don’t think it’s allowed.” 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause they’re dead,” Elliot’s words slurred together. “And that’s sad. It’s supposed to be sad. You’re supposed to feel bad for them.” 

“Do you feel bad for him?” 

Elliot’s hand reached for yours, and you let him hold it loosely, not pushing any contact other than what he wanted and was comfortable with. 

“Should I?” 

“You know I can’t answer that,” you replied. “I can’t even answer that for myself.” 

You let the silence sit for a moment, then sighed. “I go back and forth on it. I feel bad for them, for being dead. Then I remember, and I don’t feel bad, I think ‘thank god they’re gone.’ Then I feel bad for thinking that, because like you say, they teach you not to think that. But I don’t know that it’s actually wrong or bad.” 

Elliot nodded, and drained his glass of wine. “I’m grabbing more. You want some?” 

You finished your glass, nodded, and handed it to Elliot. 

He seemed so small, so tired, so weary as he stood at the counter, draining the last of the wine into your glasses in equal amounts. 

He returned and slumped beside you as he handed you your glass. “So what do we do?” 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t think there’s an easy answer. I think you just gotta feel however you feel about it in the moment, and accept that it’s probably gonna change from time to time. Depending on where you are mentally, and like emotionally and shit, you know?” 

You laughed and sipped the wine, wincing at the acidity, stronger than the last glass. “But I don’t know. You know how it is, you parrot what the therapist tells you and you try and make some of it work and make sense, so you can think about anything else for a little while and imagine what it would be like if it all had never happened.” 

He nodded. “Can I kiss you?” 

“You don’t have to ask every time, but thank you for it this time,” you replied. “Just a kiss. We’re too drunk for anything else.” 

“You aren’t drunk,” Elliot whispered as he set his glass on the coffee table and moved close to you. He took your glass from your hand and set it beside his, then carefully cupped your jaw in his hands as he kissed you.

“No, but it wouldn’t take much more,” you admitted. “I missed lunch today at work.” 

“Missed it?” Elliot asked with a raised brow.

“We’re dealing with your trauma tonight,” you teased. “Save mine for tomorrow.” 

“Fair enough,” he sighed, and moved with you as you lay back on the couch and pulled him with. “Can I tell you how I feel about him? Right now, I mean, like you were saying?” 

“Of course,” you hummed, and let his head rest against your chest, knowing your heart was beating fast from the wine, his weight on yours, the lack of food in your stomach. 

“I think...in one way, I miss him. He was my dad. He was my friend, sometimes.” 

“But?” 

“But, what he did to me...” Elliot’s voice trailed off for a moment, and his hand reached for yours that was dropped off of the side of the couch. “I can’t forgive that.” 

“You shouldn’t,” you said. 

“And I hate him for that. I hate him more than I think I’ve hated anyone,” he said coldly.

You nodded. You hated Elliot’s father too for what he had done. 

“But then he’s dead, and we’re supposed to pity the dead or some shit,” Elliot continued. “They don’t have any bullshit to worry about, I don’t get why they get all the pity.” 

“I think we’re supposed to enjoy the bullshit while we’re here,” you said carefully. “But I also think it’s supposed to be like...just the bullshit of deciding what to eat every day. Or what clothes to wear. Not like...struggling to find a purpose, or dealing with huge trauma like this, and addiction and things like that.” 

“And those of us like you and me, who have all that other bullshit to deal with?” Elliot asked. “No pity for us? For the days like this, anniversaries that make me wanna rip my fucking skin off?” 

“I don’t think it’s that clear cut,” you sighed. “Life is more grey area than anything else, with certain things. There’s pity for people like us, but you know America...bootstraps and all that.” 

“And if we can’t pull ourselves up?” 

“I don’t think anyone can without help,” you answered. “So I’ll help you, and you help me, and we’ll trade tips with what our therapists tell us.” 

Elliot laughed, but it had a bitter tinge. “Not much else we can do.” 

“Not really,” you said. “But I got you, and you got me, and every now and again we got left over wine to help kill it inside until we learn how to cope with it some other way.” 

Elliot just sighed, and you rested your free hand on his back, rubbing gently through his hoodie. 

“Still drunk?” you asked after a half hour. 

“Don’t know,” he muttered. “I should let you go home.” 

“I could stay,” you said, when really you wanted to ask if he would let you stay. For his sake and yours. 

“We can order pizza,” Elliot mumbled. “You need to eat.” 

You nodded. “And something to drink with it. Non-alcoholic, or we’ll feel dead by tomorrow.” 

He kissed your collar bone gently, and moved off of you to find his phone and place the order. He didn’t have to ask your favorites on food anymore, he’d learned them by now. Or hacked you and found it out that way, you didn’t really care what way he’d discovered it truthfully. 

In any case, it would be good food and drink and company, for a night where he wouldn’t sleep while his mind and memories haunted him, and you wouldn’t sleep due to your worry for him and thoughts of your own trauma tripped up and awakened as you talked him through his. 

As you waited for the food, sat upright on the couch again, he stripped off his hoodie and set it around your shoulders. He always noticed when you were cold, without you saying a word. 

You gestured for him to lay down, head in your lap just the way you loved, so you could play with his hair and make him feel safe. 

The cold of the night had seeped into your bones, and you wished you could use it to freeze this moment. For both of you, to make every hard night and painful anniversary to follow easier to get through. A reminder that even the worst nights could have good moments. 

And your stomach growled, but you willed the doorbell not to ring. 

Not yet. Not until you had a few more moments of this little bubble of safety with him. 


End file.
